As in Olden Days
by V.M. Bell
Summary: The Malfoys celebrate their first Christmas following the Dark Lord's defeat.


**As in Olden Days**

It wasn't that Mother hadn't done the expected spectacular job with the holiday preparations. The Christmas tree, tucked into the corner of their drawing room, was as regal as ever, laden with the golden ornaments and charms that had been heirlooms of the Malfoy family for centuries. A silver star, perched gently atop the tree, revolved slowly, throwing sparkles of the daylight against the walls. Glimmering conspicuously, a coterie of fairies circled the room, humming carols just as they had been trained to do. The fireplace had been lit since midnight, as tradition determined it should, and a lovingly arranged collection of coffees, pastries, and chocolates threatened to overturn the table upon which it had been set.

This was to say nothing of the presents -- the presents! He should be overjoyed to see so many gifts with his name written upon their dangling tags; it was quite an impressive load, even by his standards. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine what they might contain: robes made from the finest materials in wizarding Europe, curious knick-knacks mailed from every corner of the globe (Father _did_ have a lot of connections), and perhaps even a new broomstick, if that oblong package was any hint. Christmas, after all, had only ever been a means of satisfying his more epicurean desires: to make sure that Malfoy Manor outdid all of his other friends' residences in opulence, to lay his hands on any and every desired commodity, and above all, to revel in the knowledge that he alone could access such material wealth.

And, yet, as Draco slumped there in his favorite armchair, staring at the grandfather clock on the opposite side of the room (eight o'clock; another hour until his parents would make their appearance), he was visited by an unwanted realization: all of this did not make him nearly as happy as it ought to.

--

"My dear, do I really have to partake in these -- in these Christmas festivities?"

Next to him, his wife raised her head a few inches from the pillow. She glanced at him for a moment, her blue eyes studying him, before returning to her original position. "You're awake, I see."

"You sound surprised."

"If you remember, Lucius, you normally spend Christmas Eve with, ah, _friends_." In spite of himself, Lucius smiled. Narcissa knew as well as he did that he did not actually have any friends, only business associates, colleagues, and victims. "And then you and your friends always have more Firewhiskey than is healthy, and you stumble back home at some ungodly hour and manage to collapse on top of me rather than beside me as a gentleman should. Oh, and it usually requires quite a bit of persuasion to get you up the next morning."

Lucius paused, attempting to remember Christmases from years past but recalling only a series of throbbing headaches. "I see."

"Regardless," she said, the tone of her voice chillier than before, "I was not aware that you considered Christmas morning with your family a part of -- what was the word that you used? -- 'festivities.' You often use that word with such contempt."

"Well, I'd rather…I'd rather not go."

Narcissa raised an eyebrow. "Is it too difficult to walk downstairs? You didn't even have anything to drink last night, a little bit of wine aside, so alcohol cannot be your excuse."

"I'd rather not."

"I think you're whining, my dear."

He scowled at her before turning away, tucking the covers under his chin. "I would do no such thing."

But whining, he realizes, was exactly what he was doing, though he would never admit to it, and the fact is that he had never disliked the prospect of getting out of bed on Christmas morning so much in his life. There is an insuppressible gaiety associated with the holiday, an innocence unsullied by everyday concerns, but these days, Lucius had found everyday concerns to be quite the burden. Lucius had been in touch with his personal advisor on legal affairs since the defeat of the Dark Lord, but no amount of deliberation seemed to change the inexorable outcome: one day (and one day soon, if his sources were correct), the Ministry would show up with a warrant, place whatever remained of the prestige of the Malfoy name on trial, and then lock it away forever in Azkaban.

"Lucius?" Narcissa laid a hand on his bare shoulder, caressing it.

He had never explicitly discussed the matter with both his wife and his son. No need, he had reasoned, to bother them with something like this, especially when he and his advisor had been working to ensure that both should be able to emerge as unscathed as possible. His advisor had been in touch with the Potter boy, who, it seemed, had enough innate goodness to promise to clear Narcissa's name before the Ministry. As for Draco -- there was the fact that his left arm was irreversibly stamped with the Dark Mark, but he was not yet of age when drafted into the Dark Lord's service. Youthful ignorance would be the best defense, and if the Ministry were reasonable, they would not dismiss it.

He tossed around to look at her, his still beautiful wife of more than two decades whose resilience had never faltered. He thought of Draco, who seemed to have become an entirely new person altogether -- more reclusive, more prone to silence -- since the events of last May. And, if the Ministry had their way, it would only be a matter of time when he would leave them here, together and alone. A Malfoy patriarch, he thought as he stroked Narcissa's hair, should never abandon his family. How could he bear to celebrate Christmas morning with them, cursed as he was with the knowledge that victor's justice would separate them so shortly thereafter?

"I know what you're thinking about," she whispered, wrapping her arms around him.

"No, you don't. You can't understand, Narcissa."

She tilted her eyes upward to meet his. "How can you even think that, after all that we've been through?"

"Please -- "

Lucius raised a finger, but Narcissa wrapped her hand around it and forced it back down. "They're going to take you away from me, they're going to take you away from Draco, and I know full well that there is absolutely nothing that can be done about it."

"That's exactly my point."

Narcissa withdrew her embrace and sat up, swinging her legs so that they hung over the edge of the bed. The brilliant winter morning silhouetted her form into darkness, and when she spoke next, her words were directed at the wall.

"Then, for all of our sakes, please join me and Draco downstairs at nine o'clock for presents."

--

Ensconced in an armchair, her son was hardly noticeable, but she sensed that he was already there.

"Good morning, Draco," she ventured, standing above him.

"Good morning, Mother."

She lowered her face to kiss his cheek. Despite the fire beside him, Narcissa found it to be cold. "I hope you slept well last night?"

"Erm, pretty well, thanks." He paused, then looked at her. "And you?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Well, you're early, aren't you? It isn't nine yet."

"Oh, that. I think I must have been especially excited for this Christmas."

"Yeah, I guess."

Narcissa pulled herself up to full height, and crossing her arms, surveyed the room. She thought that she, of course, had done a magnificent job of decorating the drawing room. The fairies, in particular, were an excellent touch. Much better than last year's caroling elves, she thought, smiling as she remembered their off-key droning. Draco, however, did not seem the least bit impressed.

"Is everything all right?" she asked, lowering herself onto the chair's armrest. "Were the fairies a little bit much?"

"Mother, everything's fine."

"Your father should be here soon, I think, and then we can open presents together."

Draco shrugged, and imperceptibly, Narcissa leaned back against the chair, a sigh escaping from her. Almost without thinking, she placed a hand on her son's shoulder, but she tightened her grasp as soon as he moved to shake it off. "What's wrong, Draco?" she whispered.

She knew it to be a useless question, of course. Narcissa was not a stupid woman, and she certainly was not a stupid mother. Something had significantly, perhaps irrevocably _shifted_ within Draco since the Dark Lord's conclusive defeat, but mere politics, she thought, should not be able to alter him so. His family was intact, which was more than many who had survived the war could say. Naturally, some stigma had been reattached to the Malfoy name since Lucius's Death Eater activities had been discovered, and certainly, the stigma had deepened in recent months.

But it would improve -- it had to improve, she told herself day after day. Their family still had a considerable fortune, and no amount would be spared in convincing the public that they had chosen the right side, in the end. Once Harry Potter made known her most integral role in defeating the Dark Lord (he would, she was sure of this: good people were far too predictable), the Malfoys would return to their deserved standing in society. The memories of most people were short-sighted, after all. Everything would be forgotten, and by extension, forgiven.

However, there was no optimism on Draco's face as he turned to face her.

"Mother," he said, his voice cracking, "you don't have to pretend that nothing has changed."

--

Draco watched Father shuffle into the drawing room, his hands buried into the pockets of his bathrobe. He thought that Father appeared more tired than usual, but there had been dark circles under his eyes for some time now.

"Good morning, Draco, Narcissa." He tilted his head in both of their directions.

Draco mumbled a reply, but Mother offered nothing.

"Well, time for presents, then?" he offered, bending down to retrieve the first package, wrapped in a rather plain brown. "For you, Draco. It's, ah, from the Crabbes."

"Oh." Draco took the package, eyeing it askance and weighing it in his hand. "I can't see why they would give me anything, after, well…"

"Courtesy dictates they should," Father said slowly. "Our families have been friends for many years. Deceased son or not, it is expected that we would exchange presents. It is tradition, Draco. I personally selected a fine quill for Mr. Crabbe, and your mother sent along a bottle of the year's most popular perfume."

Without waiting for Father's lecture about reciprocity among pureblood families (a much discussed subject in the earlier years of Draco's life), he tore open the brown packaging paper and found --

"The _Prophet_?" he muttered to himself, suddenly finding himself holding a thick stack of newspapers."

Father peered over his shoulder. "From about seventy years ago, it seems. Perhaps these are now considered precious antiques, or more likely, the Crabbes have somehow been mistakenly led to believe that Malfoy Manor is now their wastebasket."

Ordinarily, Draco would have sniggered at his father's wit and Mother would have emitted a demure but unmistakably vindictive laugh, but today, neither of them reacted. Perhaps it was because both of them knew that Father's remark contained an uncomfortable amount of truth.

Draco tossed the newspapers in the fire, where they immediately caught flame. "It doesn't matter, Father."

"Well, here is another one for you, then -- a little something from a cousin of ours in France. Surely they wouldn't be so rude as to -- "

A small sniffle; Draco looked to his father, stupidly wondering if he was its source, but, no, Father would never cry. Then they both looked to the figure that had been silent for much too long, the figure now trembling with suppressed sobs.

"Mother?" Draco placed a hand on her arm, but the trembling seemed to intensify. "Erm, Mother?"

"Draco, of course something has changed. Everything has changed but, Merlin, I wish it hadn't. I wish it hadn't, dear."

"I wish it hadn't either," he muttered, and from the corner of his eye, he saw Father nod.

"Can you blame me for pretending?"

"But -- but why do you have to pretend, Mother?"

"Draco, please," Father said, his voice firm.

Draco paused. "And why do you pretend, Father? You come home every day and you never say anything to us. Nothing important, anyway, as if -- as if there's nothing to talk about. Do you two just not see it?"

"We see it," Mother said, "but do you -- do you not want it to be normal here? Do you want talk of politics and prosecutions and prison sentences here,here in your own home? You should feel protected here, and we're your parents, Draco. If we did not -- if we did not at least try…"

Draco looked away from Mother and surveyed the room. This was normal, he realized, the quiet Christmas morning. Normal was simple enough to imitate -- Mother had done a better job than most, and in the end, it even looked quite pretty -- but imitations, at their core, were false. This new, post-war world had no room for normal as it was once understood.

"Maybe we don't have to try."

The conclusion, so naturally derived, unintentionally fell from his lips. Draco himself felt somewhat repulsed by it, aware as he was of the importance of appearances, but at last, he recognized that there was no other way that his family might form itself anew and confront its adversaries.

"Maybe we don't have to try," he said again.

He stood up from the armchair and edged towards the tree. His sleeve brushed by one of the ornaments, which hissed at him as he passed by, but he duly ignored it and picked up one of the gifts. Turning around, he handed it to Mother.

"Here, this is for you -- for both of you," he added, eyeing Father. "I mean, I got other things for you too, but I thought that you should have it. Happy Christmas."

Tentatively, Mother slid her nails under the wrapping paper and pried it open as Father motioned to stand behind her. Draco studied his fingers.

"Oh, Draco," she breathed, "where did you find this?"

"Erm, if you have to know, my closet."

Indeed, the present still contained traces of its former residence. The glass of the frame was streaked with dust and age, though Draco had tried his best to clean it, and the figures in the photograph seemed a bit pale and sickly (no doubt a consequence of not having seen sunlight for many years). Nevertheless, within the walls of the photograph, a younger Draco enthusiastically zoomed around the Christmas tree on his toy broomstick, a younger Mother stood off to the side, her arms crossed and lips pursed, and a younger Father, effecting disapproval but clearly fighting a laugh, stood there with his arm around her waist.

"I, erm -- " Draco cleared his throat. "I thought it would -- even with everything that's going on, there's still just -- there's still just us here, isn't there? And it should be enough, shouldn't it?"

A footstep sounded against the floor, and Draco twitched at the sound, only to find Father standing next to him. With a slight start, he realized that he was as tall as Father now -- a feat that he thought he would never accomplish, given the elder Malfoy's imposing height. Behind him, Mother, clutching the frame to her chest, had sunk into the armchair, hair obscuring her face.

"It is enough, Draco," Father said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "We will make it enough."


End file.
